


The Occidean Crusade

by VilhalmFeidhlim



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-02-10 01:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VilhalmFeidhlim/pseuds/VilhalmFeidhlim
Summary: The nations of the Seraphim and of the Zodiac have been opposed for centuries - but now that tension is coming to a head. War brews on the horizon, while immortal, monstrous creatures roam the land and cause devastation. In the chaos that will follow, only one can settle the land - the Angel of Death, lost to history. Now, they must be found again...





	1. Chapter 1

The city of Iberion was in turmoil.

The city had been, historically, a peaceful place - governed by the Seraphim, it experienced prosperity, protection, and a sort of reverence by its allies.

Now, however, things had changed.

The advance of the Zodiacs was as inevitable as any earthly disaster, as menacing as any oncoming storm.

The city of Iberion was preparing for war.

Weapons were being forged and gathered, soldiers trained, engines of war constructed, sacrifices made and prayers given.

The fast-approaching conflict would not be a quick one.

Even as the city itself prepared, other, more important, decisions were being made.

In the tower that watched over the city, a monstrous spire of glass and unearthly metals, a lone figure stood staring, lost in thought.

The figure stood within a sprawling office, of sorts, constructed of wood and glass and steel, decorated sparsely with souvenirs and gifts, remnants of times long past, of better times. The figure cared little for them, merely staring from the stained-glass window overlooking the city.

The figure gazed upon his home, eyes unseeing, but caught in the past. It saw, but did not register, the hustle and bustle below, the frenzied movements of the mortals, the panic of the familiars as they rose above the city, delivering messages or completing errands.

Black hair cascaded down his back, pinned in place with a single adamantine clip. His skin was paler than any human’s, almost ethereal to gaze upon. The intricate patterns engraved and carved into his garments drew the eye, not in fascination but in fear, in repulsion.

The figure cared not. He had far greater issues on his mind.

The city of Iberion was troubled, and so it’s Watcher was troubled.

“Sathariel,” intoned the figure.

Wisps of smoke coiled into existence, emerging from the mere air the figure was swathed in. It coalesced, seething and rising into a firmer a form before resolving into that of another, unnaturally tall figure, human only in it’s likeness.

“My lord…” Rasped the second entity, Sathariel, wreathed in smoke as it was. With each breath more pale vapour seeped from its mouth, even as the figure itself remained eerily still. “Your desires?”

“A report,” responded the leather-clad man. “The Zodiac encroach. How long.”

His enunciation was as commanding as it was solemn. Sathariel shuddered as he obeyed.

“No more than four and thirty days, my lord,” the scratchy voice uttered. “Turiel attempts to stall, raising mountains in their path, but they break through with ease. I fear we may yet lose Seraphim to this oncoming tide.”

The dark-haired figure bowed his head, and for a moment Sathariel believed it could see fury in the being’s stance. It was gone in moments, however- the smog-laden being barely kept itself from heaving a sigh of relief.

“Uriel grows restless - she believes her presence on the front lines will make a difference.” Sathariel continues. “And Phanuel, Eistibus, and Remiel agree that we cannot last much-”

“Gather the Seraphim.” The lord finally spoke, breaking through Sathariel’s report, raising his head and clasping his hands behind his back. “Bring them to Iberion.”

“Even Turiel?” Sathariel inquired, confusion etched into the smoke it exhaled. “Gadriel? Surely they are far too vital to the defense-?”

“Gather them, Sathariel.” The pale-man stated, in a tone that brooked no response, half-turning as he did so. Sathariel quivered in place, struggling to keep itself from recoiling. It was betrayed by the agitation in the smoke coiling from its body. “Bring them to Iberion. We will need them all for our next task.”

“What task, lord Azazel?” Sathariel leaned in, voice settled now, its gaseous emissions no longer roiling as aggressively.

“There is only one course of action,” Azazel replied softly, his voice now far more sombre than harsh. “We must find Azrael.” He paused, and Sathariel wondered if it had imagined the subtle shudder of regret that skittered down the spine of its lord. “My old friend has languished in retirement for far too long. The Angel of Death must walk again.”


	2. Capturing the Behemoth

Lamech surveyed the landscape before him, a grim smile marring his face.

Before him, the army of the Zodiac held firm, preparing themselves to bring their combined magical might to bear against the Behemoth.

The creature was half-nestled in the sand, an enormous, quadrupedal monstrosity, shifting plates of bone and rock shielding its insides.

The beast had sequestered itself within a sort of valley of stone, in the deserts that lay to the west of Astellia. It hadn’t moved for some time, but sand and stone had been gradually collecting near it, pulled by the monster’s ethereal power, building the foundations for whatever monolithic creation it intended to make.

That was the creature’s pattern - migrate, to a new location every few years, and begin subtly using its magic to shape the very earth around it, building towards some insidious purpose.

Supposedly it had only completed its task once, centuries ago, without being interrupted - and the resultant volcanic eruption had decimated vast swathes of land, rendering them uninhabitable to this day.

Lamech intended to do more than just interrupt the Behemoth, however. He intended to capture it.

His designation as Commander of the Zodiac forces had been a controversial one - Lamech was not native to Astellia, and indeed little was known of his history. He had proved himself, however, not just to the upper echelons of the Zodiac but also to its people, successfully leading a counter-attack to an incursion of Pit Locusts.

And now he was to ascend further. With the completion of this task, his position would be cemented within the Zodiac hegemony, and he would be able to focus his attention on the coming war with Iberion. The grim smile deepened at the thought.

He raised his left hand, signalling to the Libra division to spread the word. 

The attack was to begin soon.

Behind him, dozens of soldiers sat in meditative poses, positions designed to bring about focus, disseminating the message into the very air around them such that the Behemoth would not hear it.

Immediately, the Taurus division moved into position. They were the first line of defence, setting up layers upon layers of barriers so that the Behemoth’s first wave of attack would not immediately crush them.

Behind them, the Sagittarius division set themselves up - the primary firepower of the Zodiac army, Sagittarians were prized among the people, with many contriving to give birth under the constellation.

The rest of the forces, regiments of the six divisions he’d brought to the battle remained in the flanks, poised for action, each soldier drilled innately with their duties in this complex operation.

Lamech’s smile grew as he looked once more over the army - over his army.

He was almost envious at the power these men and women had been granted, by the mere circumstance of the time of their birth.

Finally, he deemed the soldiers as ready as they would ever be, and he moved his arm from its position in a long arc, above his head and down again, to point directly at the target.

Behind him, the Libra conveyed his message.

First barrage.

The Sagittarius division opened fire, unleashing vivid bolts of magical energy, each colour and consistency unique to its progenitor.

As one, the torrent of power splashed against the wide, flat, russet skull of the Behemoth, pocking and marking the surface.

The conflagration of colour was beautiful, Lamech noted absently. Reminiscent of the frequent fireworks displays in Astellia.

The Behemoth awoke.

Its gaping maw stretched wide, revealing a beak-like mouth seemingly constructed from stone, a great slab of reddish rock stretching within the mouth of the monster. It uttered a sound reminiscent of grinding stone, of a rockslide, of the collapsing of mountains, the shattering of the earth beneath one’s feet.

Lamech lifted his left arm, then brought it down once again.

Second barrage.

The Sagittarians let fly.

Energy soared through the air, screaming, less coherent this time, many soldiers shaken by the mere awakening of the beast.

Regardless, the magic struck true. The Behemoth received further bolts of power, this time to its mouth and eyes, the leathery skin of its neck, the bony plates of its shoulders.

It shook its head from side to side, and reached forward with one gargantuan foot.

The stony pillar of flesh and bone slammed into the ground some distance from the first line of Tauran defenders, but the shockwave of sand and stone it released stretched out disproportionately towards Lamech’s army.

It slammed into the line of shields the Taurus division had erected, instantly killing dozens who had not been strong enough to withstand.

The line, however, held.

The overflow of the shockwave crashed over the top of the Tauran line, disrupting the Sagittarian position, but Lamech ignored that, eyes focused intently on the movement of the Behemoth.

It shifted, moving to regain its footing after the attack, and the Commander brought his arm up and then down a third time.

Third barrage.

The Sagittarian attack was even less coherent this third time, but Lamech observed with grim satisfaction the way the Behemoth seemed to recoil and let out an even louder, snarling, grinding roar.

The next phase of attack began the second the Sagittarians finished firing.

The Aries division darted through the lines of soldiers, seizing the nearest Sagittarians before vanishing from Lamech’s eyes, their enhanced speed enabling them to evacuate the front lines with ease.

The Behemoth stepped forward again, unleashing another, greater shockwave, one that caused the very ground to tremble.

The Taurus division held, initially, losing only a few soldiers to the attack, before the Aries division was there, carrying as many as they could and depositing them to their next position.

Lamech observed the flurry coldly, waiting until the right moment to strike.

The Behemoth shifted in position, and he saw the rumbling of the ground around it, the stony valley spires trembling as the monster began to truly take control of the earth.

He swiped his left arm to the side.

The Libra distributed his message to all.

Atop the dunes and spikes that surrounded the creature, the Aquarius division received their orders.

Commence the ascent.

As one, they focused.

Lamech remained motionless. He was tense, now that success was in sight.

This manoeuvre had been practiced countless times against similarly weighted objects, but never on a living thing.

Silently, he gestured to his attendant.

The Behemoth raised another colossal foreleg, higher than before, in preparation of a more extensive attack.

Before it could bring it down, however…

The Behemoth jerked to a stop, its legs suddenly straining to move down.

Lamech grinned.

Slowly, steadily, the beasts other leg rose into the air, forcing it into a reared-up position, as the hundreds of soldiers within the Aquarius division worked their telekinetic magic.

Then, gradually, the monster’s hind leg lifted.

Lamech’s attendant returned to him, towing a bleating, panicked goat. The Commander didn’t turn his head to acknowledge her, merely waving a hand to dismiss her.

The Behemoth’s other hind leg rose slowly into the air, and Lamech’s grin turned feral.

He knelt down, pulled a knife from his belt, and slit the goat’s neck.

Blood poured in a fountainous surge from the creature’s neck, but Lamech ignored that. He breathed in the release of power that came from death, took hold of it and twisted it, then pushed the magic to his soldiers.

The Behemoth jerked up in the air as the Aquarius division received an influx of strength.

They had done it. 

They had captured a primordial monster, one of the many that still roamed this land.

The next step, of course, was to unleash it on Astellia’s foes - the city of Iberion, and the Seraphim that defended it.

Then Lamech, Nephilim of Sacrifice, son of Azazel, could take revenge on his father.


	3. Transcription of Memories

The library sat in the midst of the tower, a quiet folded space within which lay hundreds, perhaps thousands of books. All had been written by Penemue himself.

Even now, the Angel sat calmly within, three books spread out before him. The Seraphim of the Written Word held a brush in three of his six arms – for he was a ‘he’ today – and was calmly inscribing onto the pages before him.

The veil that covered his entire face caused him no trouble with the transcription – in fact, his face was politely pointed towards his fellow Angel, seated across the table from him. Penemue’s head was tilted ever-so-slightly to indicate to the speaker that he was listening.

The Angel sitting across from Penemue was blank, a smooth, silvery, convex plate taking the place of his face. Silvery streamers fluttered from the form of the Angel, and in the distorted reflections were not the bookshelves of the library, but the memories of Zachriel.

Zachriel, the Seraphim of Memory, had its hands calmly folded in its lap, its legs crossed, and its fingers clasped.

“Please,” Penemue stated, voice pleasant and monotone. “Continue.”

Zachriel inclined its head. “Michael then, after years of pursuit, caught up to the Dragon, in the scattered clouds of Safarah. The Dragon initially attempted to flee once more, but Michael had come prepared for this eventuality. He cast out a net that caught and entangled the Dragon’s wings, trapping it in the Safarah and preventing its escape.”

Zachriel’s voice had a high, ringing quality to it, reminiscent of a bell. It was clear, concise, and evoked thoroughly the image it tried to convey. It was hauntingly beautiful to listen to, bringing to mind nostalgic wisps of memory, taking one back to their youth, to better times.

Penemue interrupted.

“Could you give a clearer description of Safarah, please?” He asked, as three of his arms transcribed Zachriel’s words into the relevant volume. One was a recording of the history of the Seraphim, another an anatomical description of the primordial monsters of the world. The third was Penemue’s personal journal.

Zachriel shifted in its seat. “Surely you know of the Safarah?” It asked, and Penemue could detect amusement in its voice.

“For a clearer transcription, I’d like to hear it in your words,” Penemue explained calmly, his voice remaining level.

Zachriel nodded. “Very well. The Safarah are those islands which reside in the clouds, a collection of environments and zones suspended by some magical wellspring. Waterfalls, rivers of lava, deserts, forests, tundra, snow-capped peaks – all exist alongside each other. The origin of it is unknown, but it was discovered by Sahaqiel some time ago. No humans live there. The Safarah seems able to repair itself, somehow, as despite the devastation wrought by the Dragon, it remains in the sky, unharmed.”

Penemue nodded. “Thank you. Please, continue.”

Zachriel took a moment to compose itself. “Michael trapped the Dragon in the Safarah, entangling its wings and preventing its escape. Despite this, the Dragon desperately sought to flee, and threw itself from the islands, casting itself willing down to the ground below. Michael followed on golden wings, and reached the Dragon is fell to earth, cratering the ground beneath it and causing earthquakes for miles around.”

Penemue interrupted once more. “It is my understanding that the Safarah is not bound to one location, and indeed drifts. What was its location at the time of the Dragon’s fall?”

Despite the lack of features, Penemue thought it could detect a hint of something akin to a smile on the plain mirror of Zachriel’s skull.

“It was on Mount Morael, if that’s what you’re asking,” Zachriel stated. “It is partially why Azazel has forbidden its entry to any of the Seraphim. The remnants of Michael’s and the Dragon’s battle there has rendered it inhospitable to any mortal being.”

Penemue nodded, once more, its gaze never wavering from the silvery visage of Zachriel. He doesn’t question the near blasphemous statement Zachriel has implied, that Angels are mortal beings. Some of the Seraphim would have taken that as a direct insult to God, but Penemue knew Zachriel sufficiently well enough to understand its intentions.

“Understood,” Penemue mused, transcribing Zachriel’s comments on Mount Morael onto a fourth book. “Please, go on.”

“Michael caught up to the Dragon as it landed, and joined battle with the beast. He drew his golden blade and smote the beast three times in quick succession, scarring and bludgeoning it. With a fearsome roar, the beast got to its feet and responded in kind – blazing streams of fire lit the air, as it tried to set Michael alight. It struck out with its claws and tail, battering Michael, and one errant swipe sent the Angel tumbling from the air, knocking him down the side of the mountain.

“Michael quickly recovered, but the beast was on him once more, boiling the very earth around him in its attempt to kill the Angel. It raised one mighty, taloned fist, and struck with all its might. Michael surely would have died, had he not raised his sword at the last moment and defended himself from the blow, flaring his Angelic power with less than a second to spare, splitting the power of the blow. The resultant force laid waste to the land around it, rendering one long strip of barren desert, which is what we now know as the White Scar.

“The battle continued to rage. The Dragon fought with incensed ferocity, fury lending its assault strength. Michael defended and retaliated where possible, the knowledge that he was all that lay between the monster and humanity empowering him to match its blows.

“The battle turned to hours, to days, to weeks. Months passed, and still neither could find the upper hand over their foe. Both became weary, the extended nature of their battle taking a toll on their respective bodies.

“The Dragon bore many wounds from Michael’s sword, his Angelic strength leaving long gashes in the monster. The Dragon was slowed severely by its loss of ichor, which scarred the land around it and prevented anything from growing.

“Michael, too, was not saved from this fate. His flesh was burnt, torn and bruised. The mortal shell he had taken on was dreadfully damaged, beyond the point of healing by any of our Seraphim.

“Yet he saw that the Dragon fought on. He realized that, should the battle continue much longer, he would be likely to lose. As such, in his final moments, he unleashed the last of his power, weaving magic around the two of them like a living force – and, in that final, sacrificial moment, allowed the Dragon to strike a fatal blow, knowing that in doing so, he could finally kill the Dragon, imprisoning its remains deep in the earth below Mount Morael.”

With that, Penemue noted, Zachriel seemed to have finished reciting its memory.

He continued to write for a short time longer, recording various aspects of the memory that were relevant to some of his other works, before laying down the four brushes on the table before him.

“Are you satisfied?” Zachriel asked, more curious than at all accusing.

“… Some,” Penemue responded, a pair of his arms folding across of his chest. “Out of curiosity…” he began carefully, picking his words after some deliberation. “What do you remember of the battle between Gabriel and the Leviathan?”

“Ah,” Zachriel said, a note of some unidentifiable emotion entering their voice. “Now there is a memory far more tragic. Given Gabriel’s absence from our ranks, and the continued terrorisation of the Leviathan, I suppose you can guess at the results of the battle.”

Penemue nodded, but raised another brush anyway. It was his duty to transcribe all Zachriel’s memories, no matter how much they pained him.


	4. Gift of Raphael

Raphael, clad in brown robes drawn tight about himself, with a hood pulled low to conceal his oddly-pale skin, stood motionless. One might have disregarded him at first notice.

One would have, were it not for the distinct aura of power surrounding him. The denizens of the small town stared unabashedly at the incognito Angel, but Raphael did his best to pay them no mind – he could   
hardly blame them for recognizing his form, much as he would have preferred to go unnoticed.

He had entered this settlement on the outskirts of Zodiac nation’s territory only recently, having completed his circuit of the municipalities outside Seraphim influence.

Raphael considered his journey a kind of pilgrimage, if not necessarily a voluntary one – his expulsion by Azazel was very much against his will, but there was little to be done now. He had turned his focus to that of the mortal world, and found so much suffering.

In every place he’d visited, from minor hamlet to large city, poverty and sickness had been abundant. Children slept in the streets, slowly dying, and the town seemed unable to do anything about it.

Unable, or unwilling.

And so Raphael had taken it upon himself to do something about it.

From Iberion in the south, the city-state from which he had originated and been banished from, the Seraphim of Health had moved clockwise through the various territories, making sure to stick to the outskirts of towns. He could do little in the way of long-term change, but he eased pain and restored the sickly to full health where he could – he did his best to ensure they would remain so for as long as possible, until he could repeat his circuit.

He admitted to himself, it was inelegant solution. The other Angels, those of more cerebral pursuits, would surely be better able to put his talents to use. But after his conversation with Azazel… He could never return to that cursed abomination of a city.

He had set his sights on the nation of the Zodiacs, a nation seeking to fight against the Seraphim. He had witnessed their battlefields from afore, born witness to the destruction wrought by Gadriel and Af, and felt glad as the sheer numbers of the Zodiacs forced his once-allies back.

Azazel could not be allowed to win this war.

Even as he bore witness to the suffering, however, Raphael knew he could not render aid. The Zodiac were too organized, too suspicious, to allow him any measure of agency. And so Raphael had turned away from the battlefield, and sought out other areas of suffering.

The stirrings of a plague in Triarrock had been stamped out thanks to him, a slum’s wallowing ended after he restored limbs in Daodziou – and was not their punishment of criminals barbaric?

Each time, he had been forced to move on after suspicion from the local authorities. The presence of an unacknowledged Seraphim was unwelcome, particularly to those who wished to maintain the status quo.  
Raphael had drifted from town to town, city-state to city-state, until he had found himself in the Zodiac territory to the north. Just a small town, on the outskirts of the land they lay claim to – but something had drawn him here, he knew that now.

Standing with his robes drawn close about him in the town square, Raphael closed his eyes and breathed.

Power disseminated itself across the entire town. It flooded every street and household, subtle magic meant to disguise its source.

Meant to? He wondered. Or merely incidental, the remnants of whatever power they constantly use?

Raphael knew that the source, whatever it was, could not have done anything significant – if it had, it would have drawn the Constellars, the closest thing the Zodiacs had to an elite corps of guardsmen.

There.

The eddies and whorls of magical power that drifted through the town- they shifted around a central weight, a presence so forceful that it affected the subtle lattice of magic that hung about the town.  
Raphael frowned.

He knew that weight.

He’d experienced it before, a long time ago- the memory was distant now, and unpleasant – Raphael was mostly divorced from it. Nevertheless, a bell of recognition rung in his mind.

Raphael opened his eyes and started walking once again, attention entirely focused on the source of this power, distant as it was.

As he traversed the town, the Angel noticed the crowds growing larger rather than smaller. Off to the side of the town square- a market street of some kind, various stalls and vendours set up along it to hawk their wares.

And at the far end – that same presence.

A singularity of power, heavy enough that the entire magical plane seemed to tilt in towards it, inexorably drawing all into it.

Interesting.

Raphael approached, more slowly and subtly now. He was careful to dampen his own power, to avoid the attention of this weight, but-

He needn’t have worried. When Raphael saw the source of the power, a smile split his face. A young boy – tall, certainly, for his age, and muscular despite the clear signs of poverty. A handsome face, confident and symmetrical – almost perversely perfect.

A Nephilim. The child of an Angel and a human. Forbidden, by Azazel, exterminated to the last decades ago – and yet here one was.

How had he ended up in a miniscule village on the edge of Zodiac territory, of all places?

And how had he survived Azazel’s purge?

The boy was deep in conversation with a burly, moustachioed man who looked utterly enraptured – the mans mouth hung slightly open, and he clung to every word from the boy’s lips.

“And the town is really big, isn’t it? Really big, for the amount of people living here – just so, unusally big, it’s weird to think about. The town is large, it’s just such a large… Town.”

A crude manipulation of emotion, Raphael acknowledged. It spoke of power, certainly – but little skill.

The boy’s voice was surprisingly deep for his age – which, Raphael supposed, was appropriate, given his species.

Whilst the Nephilim distracted the shopkeeper, Raphael saw that a trio of other, smaller children were grabbing at the man’s wares, hauling them into a small sack. Once it was full to the brim, they pattered off, disappearing down an alleyway.

A few moments later, the boy broke off conversation with the shopkeeper and pursued the children, his feet silent on the cobbled stone.

Raphael watched it all with amusement, a slight smile splitting his normally solemn façade.

For all that there was suffering in the world, he acknowledged, there could certainly be points of brightness, compassion and camaraderie.

Raphael stepped into the alley, a suddenly-buoyant feeling carrying him along.


	5. Descent into the Pit

The Pit that lay below the tower would have seemed bottomless to any who gazed upon it. Azazel, as the one who had created the prison, knew better – space was folded and twisted here, layered upon itself endlessly, creating something inescapable.

Of course, if there were any who might prove that descriptor wrong, it was the singular denizen of the place – the being Azazel intended to confront.

Far below, in the shadowed depths of the Pit, Azazel’s inhuman vision could make out a pillar of unearthly material – a consecrated fusion of adamant metal and substances of the prisoner’s own design, now brought to bear against it.

Upon the pillar was chained one of the few beings Azazel truly feared – and of them, the only he sincerely, honestly hated.

Despite the pitch black of the Pit – the darkness was so deep that not even the Angel’s own enhanced vision could see his own hands – the figure atop the pillar was as clear as daylight. No light fell upon the entity, nor did the being emit any light of its own – instead, it merely appeared in Azazel’s field of view, devoid of shadows that any light source might cast.

It was simply, unnervingly… There.

A smooth white sphere hovered above the pillar – around it revolved a dozen wheels of apparently-varying materials, rotating about the ivory core as though it were some unholy gyroscope. Each wheel – and indeed the sphere itself – was lined with countless eyes, disturbingly large and inhuman in their appearance, bearing the pupils of countless different creatures.

The final detail, the part which made Azazel curse this being to the bottom of his heart, was the wings.

A hundred, perhaps more, ranging from the size of his own hand to larger than the carriages that trundled along the streets of Iberion, twisted and knotted about each other, and as pure white as Azazel’s own skin.

This detail was the true source of Azazel’s hatred – for the accursed being before him was an Angel.

A Seraphim and once, one of his Siblings.

Now, fortunately, those wings were imprisoned and broken, held down by the countless, heavy chains that criss-crossed the Angel’s form.

“Abaddon.” Azazel stated, his voice carrying clearly and easily across the unfathomable distance between the two in an instant.

“Azazel.” The Angel’s own tinny, compressed voice carried back, androgynous and somehow seethingly malevolent, despite its pleasant tone. “How nice of you to visit! I was nearly done here anyway.”

Azazel ignored the Angel’s ramblings. Abaddon had cut out all sentimentality and emotion from itself centuries ago, and all that remained was a core of determination and logic, willing to perform any act in pursuit of its goal. If it portrayed itself as having emotion, it was only in service of escaping its prison.

“I’m here to ask you some questions.” Azazel stated instead, eyes laser-focused on the traitor. “Specifically, about-”

“About what happened two centuries ago, I know.” Abaddon replied, somehow managing to sound smug.

_It is merely trying to enrage me,_ Azazel reminded himself. _It feels nothing_.

“Indeed,” he replied finally. “The incident that coincided with Raphael’s banishment-”

“And the disappearance of Azrael.” Abaddon concluded smoothly.

Azazel fought to remain stoic. Azrael had been the closest of his brothers – and he knew that the being before him was responsible for his absence these past years.

“You’ve searched, I assume?” Abaddon inquired, as though it did not already know the truth. The prison was designed to prevent anything from contacting the outside, but Azazel was aware that Abaddon’s knowledge of magic was far greater than his own – it was entirely possible, even probable, that the creature was able to see everything.

There was nothing Azazel could do about it, and that _infuriated_ him unlike anything else.

“Obviously.” Azazel retorted, fighting to keep the irritation from bleeding into his tone. “For decades after the event itself, and found nothing. Sahaqiel herself retreated to the Firmament, to seek out Azrael’s essence in the heaven. She found nothing.”

“Well, isn’t that a shame?” Abaddon replied, his tone somehow sympathetic despite its almost mechanical nature. “And you’ve scoured the land for the Angel of Death?”

“Yes.” Azazel replied tersely – the absurd simplicity of Abaddon’s questions beginning to get to him. The fallen Angel _clearly_ knew that talking to it was a last resort – the inquiries into the exact nature of Azazel’s investigation were _designed_ to provoke him.

Something that no one since Michael had been able to do.

“Hm…” Abaddon replied. “Well, I’m sure you know the circumstances of his disappearance – we were both there, after all.”

Azazel did – it was during Abaddon’s rebellion, over two centuries ago now, that the Angel of Death had disappeared.

“Well,” Abaddon began again at Azazel’s brief nod. “Why don’t you walk me through what happened? Refresh both our memories? It’s been a lonely two centuries, after all.”

The Angel of Sacrifice weighed his options. On the one hand, Abaddon certainly knew the specifics of what happened during its uprising – Seraphim didn’t forget, particularly with Zachriel around to remind them.

Despite that, however, the Angel clearly thought that provoking Azazel was its best chance of escape. Using this retelling to enrage was part of the Angel’s goal, and if Azazel didn’t play along, there was a good chance Abaddon would change tacks, maybe refuse to help him at all. As long as Azazel kept his temper in control, playing along with whatever childish whimsy Abaddon thought would provoke him, he could keep the Seraphim under control.

“… Very well,” Azazel replied after the long silence. “Two centuries ago, you and seven other Angels – Gamaliel, Zomiel, Usiel, Azicothiel, Chaigidiel, Thamiel, and Sathariel – came to the decision that I was unfit to serve as Iberion’s Watcher and sought to overthrow me. You banded together at a time when the Seraphim were spread across our continent and unleashed hellish force against the Tower.

“What you didn’t know, was that Sathariel had been my loyal servant during your planning and reported every single one of your actions back to me, allowing me to prepare fully for your betrayal. When you attacked the Tower, you activated defences that had lain for years in wait, trapping each of your conspirators and allowing the Angels I had hidden in the city to arrive and disable them. Each was transported to a different part of the world and imprisoned for their crimes.

“You, however, had anticipated something going wrong – and upon our attempt to capture you, you activated a trap of your own, killing Arakiel and Yomiel. You escaped the city, and for years we hounded you, tracking your unholy experiments and creations until we finally found you. Over the time, you had created the Pit Locusts, the scourge that still plagues this land today. You killed, tortured, and experimented upon hundreds of humans, and to this day Iberion has not fully recovered.

“When we found you, Azrael decided to end your activities. He took Raphael with him, and the two of them confronted you.”

Azazel paused, contemplating how he would phrase the following words.

“Raphael refused to reveal exactly what happened – all I know is, he returned with you in tow, rendered half-dead by Azrael’s actions, and with knowledge he should not have had.”

Abaddon chuckled.

“Indeed, that was about the gist of things,” he agreed merrily. “You forgot one small thing, however.” He paused, clearly waiting for Azazel to answer. Azazel did not indulge him. “My _motivation_. I want just the same thing you do – to protect and preserve the city of Iberion! That is my sole purpose on this earth!”

He paused again, clearly for effect, and Azazel grit his teeth.

“But to do so, it needs to be tested. Its limits must be pushed, innovation must be cherished at all costs – the people must learn to thrive in the face of adversity! The situation was untenable two hundred years ago – population growth was rampant, crime was a pandemic, magic ran amok. Only through my actions did Iberion grow, in response to _my_ activities – I am responsible for the prosperity you see today.”

Azazel’s eyes were narrowed, his gaze focusing as much hate as he could muster on the monster before him. He wanted to object, to curse Abaddon’s name and tell him how much Azazel had sacrificed in order to undo his actions. But he didn’t. It would serve no purpose- worse, it might cause the Angel to change his mind on helping him.

Finally, Abaddon spoke again. “Answer me one question, truthfully as you can, and I will help you find Azrael.”

“… Very well.” Azazel agreed.

“Do you still pursue that same goal you did two hundred years ago, then one that I revealed to Raphael, the one whose revelation caused you to banish him?”

“… Yes.”

The laughter seemed honest, but then everything Abaddon did seemed so.

“In that case,” the creature said, through fits of laughter. “I’ll help you in whatever way I can.”


End file.
